Thee, Chatterton! yon unblest stones protectFrom want, and the bleak freezings of neglect!Escaped the sore wounds of affliction's rod,Meek at the throne of mercy, and of God,Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptured hymnAmid the blaze of seraphin!

Yet oft ('tis nature's call)I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall;And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soulAverted shudders at the poisoned bowl.Now groans my sickening heart, as still I viewThy corse of livid hue;And now a flash of indignation highDarts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?Is this the land, where genius ne'er in vainPour'd forth his lofty strain?Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,Beneath chill disappointment's shade,His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid,And o'er her darling deadPity hopeless hung her head,While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form?

Such were the struggles of that gloomy hour,When care, of withered brow,Prepared the poison's power:Already to thy lips was raised the bowl.When near thee stood affection meek(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)Thy sullen gaze she bade thee rollOn scenes that well might melt thy soul;Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view,Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay;Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,And mark thy mother's tear;See, see her breast's convulsive throe,Her silent agony of woe!Ah! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand!

And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command,But that despair and indignation rose,And told again the story of thy woes;Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling heart;The dread dependence on the low-born mind;Told ev'ry pang, with which thy soul must smart,Neglect, and grinning scorn, and want combined!Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of painRoll the black tide of death thro' every freezing vein!

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,To fancy's ear sweet is your murm'ring deep!For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave;Watching, with wistful eye, the sadd'ning tints of eve.Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,In solemn thought the minstrel wont to rove,Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tideLone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide.And here, in inspiration's eager hour, When most the big soul feels the madd'ning power,These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,With wild unequal steps he passed along,Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful browWould pause abrupt -- and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fateWho would have praised and loved thee, ere too late.Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest huesThis chaplet cast I on thy shapeless tomb;But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom!Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwellOn joys that were! No more endure to weighThe shame and anguish of the evil day,Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swellSublime of hope I seek the cottaged dellWhere virtue calm with careless step may stray;And, dancing to the moonlight roundelay,The wizard passions weave an holy spell!

Alas, vain phantasies! the fleeting broodOf woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood!Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream;And on some hill, whose forest-frowning sideWaves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide,Will raise a solemn cenotaph to thee,Sweet harper of time-shrouded minstrelsy!And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind,Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.